


Tikun Olum

by Tallulah_Rasa



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Friendship, Judaism, faith - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-15 14:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2232579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tallulah_Rasa/pseuds/Tallulah_Rasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House, Wilson, and faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tikun Olum

**Author's Note:**

> Something of a character-study of Wilson, written (and set) during S. 2.
> 
> As this story takes place during Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and references a few other Jewish holidays, it contains a few Hebrew words. Hebrew words have various spellings in English; I've used the ones most common in my world. Some info that might make the story more understandable: Charoses (also known as charoset) is a mixture of apples, wine, nuts, cinnamon and nutmeg served at the traditional Passover meal, the Seder. Hillel is an on-campus organization for Jewish college students; their holiday services are sometimes open to the community. 
> 
> I assume House knows as much about Judasim as Wilson, and possibly more. I just think he enjoys playing dumb sometimes, either to make a point or to mess with Wilson 's mind.

The first time was an accident. House showed up unexpectedly, the Seder was just about to start, and as Wilson earnestly explained, passers-by were traditionally invited to the table. The second time was something of a favor; Wilson thought it would be easier to face Hannukah latkes and a new set of in-laws with House there. The third time, Wilson's parents hosted Passover, and his mother was thrilled to have a friend of Jimmy's at the table, especially one so obviously in need of a good meal.

After that, House considered it a given that he'd be spending Passover and Hannukah -- the only Jewish holidays with decent food, and the only ones Wilson's highly-assimilated brand of Judaism apparently acknowledged -- with Wilson. He missed one Passover during those first closed-off months after the infarction, when even the promise of chicken soup and _charoses_ couldn't lure House from his suddenly-half-empty apartment. Later that year, though, House managed to show up for the first night of Hannukah and deli-bought latkes -- Wilson could cook, but his latest failed marriage had left him not only without a wife, but without any of the normal kitchen paraphernalia -- and things got back to normal, or as normal as they were going to get anymore. And 'normal' meant that for eight days in the spring and eight days in the winter Wilson would get in touch with his inner Jew, while House made fun of the food and went back for thirds.

It was predictable, then, that when Cuddy barreled into House's office one bright September morning and announced, "Wilson's taking the day off for a Jewish holiday, and O'Brien can't fill in for him in the clinic, so I need you to do it," House's curiosity was piqued. Even the vagaries of the Jewish lunar calendar didn't put September in the spring or the winter, which had to mean...

"And don't tell me you're busy," Cuddy added, "because I _know_ you don't have any patients."

Which was true, but beside the point. Because if Wilson was...

"Sorry. Can't," he told Cuddy, standing up and grabbing his backpack. "Gotta stand with Wilson on this one. It's a solidarity thing. Brotherhood. You wouldn't understand -- unless those sex change rumors are true...?"

Cuddy didn't bother answering that, though she explained quite carefully what she would do if House brushed her off. She was still talking as House limped purposefully out of his office, but she didn't make a grab for his cane, and she hardly had the upper body strength to shove it _that_ far, anyway, so he kept going.

Outside the morning was already hot, promising a true Indian summer day. The red-leaved trees were a blur as he raced by, melting into the red-brick buildings of Princeton. He pulled into the handicapped spot right in front of the Hillel, where the sign said the day's High Holiday services had started at 8:30 am. The parking lot was full to overflowing.

Inside, he had to wait a few minutes until his eyes adjusted to the dim light. A girl, a college student, was playing the cello; long, yearning notes hung over the crowded room.

Wilson was sitting at the end of a mostly-full row of folding chairs in the back. House limped over and settled next to him, after glaring until the pony-tailed guy already in the seat moved over. Wilson, never taking his eyes off the cello player, whispered, "You shouldn't be here."

"And you should?" House whispered back.

Wilson sighed; House could feel it. "Just -- don't talk, okay? Don't say anything."

So House settled back and listened to the service, which was student-run, and earnest, and didn't, surprisingly, set his teeth on edge. His mind wandered with the ebb and flow of the Hebrew chanting, and though he looked over several times, Wilson never met his eyes.

When it was all over, Wilson was still staring straight ahead.

"So, that's Rosh Hashanah," House said.

" _L'shanah Tovah_ ," Wilson said, standing up.

"Happy New Year to you, too," House said, carefully getting to his feet. "Do we eat now?"

"This isn't really a food holiday," Wilson said.

House sighed the sigh of the truly put-upon. "This isn't the fasting one, is it?"

Wilson finally left his seat, having waited until the crowd had thinned out. "No, that's Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement. That's in ten days. This is...sort of the ramp-up." He loosened his tie as he reached the entrance. It was close to noon, and blazingly hot despite the breeze.

House shrugged off his jacket. "And you don't need to fuel yourself up for all that atoning and apologizing?"

"It's not--" Wilson began, and then started again. "The traditional food for Rosh Hashanah is an apple dipped in honey. To start a sweet year, and all that."

House made a face. "I hate honey."

"I know," Wilson said. "Hence my never inviting you for Rosh Hashanah dinner." He looked around. "You rode your bike?"

House nodded. "The diner on Seventh is open. We could still get breakfast. And maybe apple pie. That's got to be just as good as apples and honey. Sweet, with that added touch of pastry, for a year of...excess calories and tooth decay."

But Wilson just wandered over to a bench next to the Hillel and sat down. After a minute, House followed him.

"What's his name?" House asked.

"What?"

"The patient. The one who's got you all," he gestured to the Hillel, and to the day around them, "thinking about beginnings and endings and atoning."

"It's not like that," Wilson said, not looking at House.

House shifted his weight, put his head back, looked up at the flame-red trees.

"John," Wilson said, then. "He's fifteen. He's fifteen, and he's dying, and he's angry, because he's never going to find out who he is, or what he wants to be when he grows up."

House nodded. "And you're here to ask God how He can let that happen?"

Then Wilson looked at him. "I'm here because I almost told him, _Join the crowd_. "

House raised his eyebrows. "But you didn't."

"Of course I didn't, you idiot. I told him that what any of us are at the moment is more important that what we might be somewhere down the road."

"And...?"

Wilson sighed and looked down. "And...maybe that's a load of crap."

"Maybe not to him," House said. A leaf floated down, and he grabbed it. He turned it over, examining the vascular system, the tiny flaws, the history of a life and a death. "He's fifteen, after all. A Cat Stevens song would seem like deep philosophy to him."

"There's a comforting thought," Wilson said. "Of course, you're the great rationalist -- you have no need for comfort."

"Reality is what it is," House said.

"And your reality allows for no doubts, I know," Wilson said. "The rest of us, though..."

"Oh, come now, Jimmy," House said, letting go of the leaf as the breeze kicked up. He watched it skim over the parking lot, coming to rest under the tire of a minivan. Wilson didn't say anything, and after a moment House turned to look at him. "You must have decided about being a doctor pretty early on," he said. "Maybe...maybe the first time you heard a Rosh Hashanah service."

Wilson met House's eyes before glancing away. "You listened," he said, nodding. "I figured you were just checking out the girls."

"I can't do both?" House scoffed.

"It's an ancient tradition, a cornerstone of the faith," Wilson said, looking up at the trees, and then the sky. " _Tikun Olum_ : to heal the world. It comes up a lot during the High Holy Days. It makes for a good New Year's resolution," he said. "It's not a bad goal, House -- healing the world."

"Except that it can't be done," House said quietly.

Wilson smile flared unexpectedly. "It's not a Yoda thing. It's not do, or not do. 'Try' is okay."

"Riiiiight."

"It's not like you don't try to do the same thing," Wilson pointed out.

"Heal the world? Not me. Just a few patients. A few stupid, lying, interestingly-sick patients."

"Riiiiiiight," Wilson said, staring out somewhere past the trees.

"Besides," House said, looking straight ahead as he bumped his shoulder into Wilson's, "it's arrogant, trying to heal the whole world."

Wilson bumped him back. "And you'd never do anything arrogant."

"Me, yes. But you've saying you've got a whole religion based on it."

"Well, we _are_ the Chosen People."

House smirked, and Wilson smiled briefly before looking away. He shrugged out of his jacket and began rolling up his sleeves, lining up each fold precisely. "I'm surprised you're taking this so well," Wilson said, paying close attention to his right sleeve. "I was expecting a few biting comments about the irony of my desire to heal the world, while I repeatedly hurt the people closest to me."

"Pot, kettle," House said. "Besides, you only hurt your wives, and they bought into the game."

"And again with comforting thoughts," Wilson said, staring at his forearms.

"You did your wives a favor. Think of it as a good deed -- what do you call it, a _mitzvah_?"

Wilson gave up on his sleeves and stared at House, clearly horrified. "How do you figure _that_?"

House shrugged. "You give them the opportunity to start new relationships," he said. "New relationships are always easier than old ones. No expectation, no obligations..."

"Well," Wilson said, returning with studied nonchalance to his cuffs. "That has interesting implications for _our_ relationship."

"We," House said, "defy explanation. But you, Jimmy, are simple. You help a lot of people, and you don't need me to tell you that. But if you're so full of guilt, I'll be a good -- no, a magnanimous -- friend, and let you start your atoning now. In the spirit of your High Holy Days, and your new-found religiosity. You can start by apologizing to me."

"In terms of my relationship to you, the phrase  _more sinned against than sinning_  comes to mind," Wilson said mildly. "Besides, the High Holy Days aren't just about making peace with other people. They're about making peace with yourself. Making peace with the promises you've made to yourself and broken. And through that, making peace with God."

"But that's not how it works with your God, is it? An eye for an eye, fire and brimstone, isn't that it?"

"I don't speak for God," Wilson said primly. "I don't even speak _with_ God."

"Some would say different," House said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Wilson almost smiled. "Well, no matter what people say," he announced, standing up, "I don't believe Cuddy's God. Even if she _does_ have eyes in the back of her head."

House planted his cane and pushed himself up. "Well, God should certainly take credit for how she fills out her--"

"Hush, heathen!" Wilson interrupted.

"Only if we're going to get something to eat," House said. "I'm starving."

"Well, that's not a bad way to start a year," Wilson conceded. "Okay."

"Five thousand years of crap," House said, trying to loosen up his right leg and not look obvious about it, "and you people still believe in fresh starts?"

"Things can change," Wilson said with conviction. " _People_ can change."

"You say that like it's a good thing."

Wilson stood patiently in a patch of sunshine, waiting for House to get his footing, but not looking obvious about it. "Not every change is for the worse, House."

House took a breath, and then a first step. "Next, you're going to tell me that we all limp, in one way or another."

"Heaven forbid," Wilson said. "Wait, do you even have time for lunch? I thought you were supposed to be interviewing another candidate for your department secretary this afternoon."

House took another careful step, and another, and reached Wilson's side. "Cuddy called it off."

"She pulled the funding? _Damn._ Look, I'll talk to her, I'll --"

House shook his head. "Calm down, Lancelot. It's not that. She just objected to my interview questions."

"Oh. Well," Wilson said, deliberately casual. He leaned his head back and looked up at the sun-dapped trees. "That's different, as Emily Litella would say." He shifted, and looked back at House. "I don't understand how you can interview anyone by phone, anyway."

"All I asked were two simple questions," House said, tapping his cane impatiently at the memory. "But Ms. What's-her-name complained to Cuddy, and now I have to submit new questions for Cuddy's approval before she'll let me interview anyone else." House rolled his eyes.

Wilson was trying not to smile. "And your questions to Ms. What's-her-name were...?"

"Are you good-looking? And will you bring drama to the department?"

"Ah. Yes. Covering the salient points, and covering them quickly. I don't see how Cuddy could have objected," Wilson said as they started off toward the parking lot. "Hey, you want to give me a ride? We can come back for my car later."

House looked from his bike to Wilson with a nod of approval. "Starting the year off right, Jimmy. Cutting work, riding my deathmobile, eating heavy deli food. What'll we do for an encore?"

Wilson shrugged. "Heal the world, of course."

As they stood by the bike, House handed Wilson the spare helmet, planted his feet, and then lifted his right leg over the bike. "Maybe you should start by healing yourself," he said.

Wilson tugged the helmet on and carefully settled himself behind House. "You first," he said, but his voice was lost as House gunned the engine and took off into the first day of the new year.

End

 


End file.
